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Davina swung down from her mare, boots thumping on the packed earth as the autumn wind blew a strand of her auburn hair across her face.

The kitchen door banged open. Her handmaid rushed out, lifting her skirts, face pale. “Thank goodness you’re home!”

“Rosselyn?” Davina handed off her reins to Liam, who offered a crooked grin and led the horse away. She hadn’t even crossed the threshold before chaos swept her into its arms.

“Please don’t be cross with Fife,” Rosselyn begged, wringing her hands. “He didn’t mean—”

“How was I s’posed tae know?” Fife barked, pacing in the kitchen, his face red with frustration.

“Everyone knows but you!” Myrna snapped, bouncing a wailing Cailin on her hip.

Davina sighed and stepped forward, arms out. “Give her here.”

Myrna passed the babe off, just as Cailin’s wee stomach heaved again. The mess splattered down Davina’s bodice .

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” Fife blurted.

Davina bit down a groan and rocked her daughter gently. “All is well, Fife. Back to the stables with you now.”

Rosselyn, quick as ever, pressed a worn cloth into Davina’s free hand.

Fife gave a sheepish nod and retreated, shoulders slumped.

Davina dabbed at the sour mess and turned toward the corridor, Rosselyn and Myrna trailing her past the servants’ quarters and the small chapel tucked into the west corner of the castle.

“Davina!” Lilias shrilled down the stairwell, breathless. “Fergus MacLeod is here!”

Davina froze, her hand holding the soiled cloth braced against the wall. “Bother it all.”

She handed Cailin back to Myrna, who took the fussing babe without question.

“I’ll nurse her once this is done.”

Myrna nodded and bustled upstairs, murmuring soft comforts.

“What’re we to do?” Lilias wrung her hands, the joints swollen and red with age and worry.

“Mam, stop that,” Davina said, gently taking her mother’s hands in hers. She brushed her thumbs over the bent fingers. “Leave your hands be, for pity’s sake.”

“But what if he finds out?” Lilias’s whisper trembled.

“The only way he’ll find out is if you tell him,” Davina said firmly. “Now, go sit in your chamber and wait.” She guided her mother toward the stairs with a steady hand. “Rosselyn, will you bring her some tea and autumn crocus?”

“Straight away,” Rosselyn replied, already turning back toward the kitchen .

Lilias hesitated at the bottom step. “But—”

“Go,” Davina snapped. “I’ll handle MacLeod.”

Her mother finally climbed the stairs, muttering. Davina blotted as much as she could from her bodice before giving up.

When she opened the front door, Beatrice nearly collided with her.

“Sorry, milady!” The kitchen maid curtsied hastily. “Master MacLeod has just arrived.”

“Aye, I’m on my way to see him now,” Davina said, giving the girl the soiled cloth.

“Milady, should we prepare—”

“Nay. If I have my way, he won’t be staying,” Davina said, brushing past her, and marched into the chilly dusk air toward the stables.

Fergus MacLeod, stocky and broad-shouldered, stepped down from his wagon, his boots slapping against the damp earth. He stretched his back with a grunt, highlighting his round belly. “Gi’ me a minute before ye take the wagon to load up the wool, will ye?”

Davina caught Fife’s eye as he held the reins of MacLeod’s horses, and she gave him the smallest shake of her head.

Fife’s lips tightened, but he said nothing, ducking behind the horses to avoid notice.

“Ah, Lady Davina!” MacLeod turned with a grin that creased his ruddy face. “Good o’ ye tae greet me yerself, but where’s that new hoosband o’ yours, then?”

Davina folded her arms, jaw tight. “My husband is away on business. Why have you come, Mr. MacLeod?”

The corner of MacLeod’s mouth curled into a grin that made her skin crawl. “I dinnae understand how any man could stay away from his own hearth when he has a bonnie lass like ye warming his bed. His loss, I s’pose.”

Davina’s fingers pressed into her palms, her nails biting into the flesh to keep her temper in check.

MacLeod dug into his leather satchel and produced a heavy sack of coins, which he tossed toward her. She caught it with both hands, the weight of it inspiring.

“The earnin’s from the wool I sold up north,” he said. “Give that to yer hoosband when he returns. Just have me wagon loaded with the fresh lot before I leave early on the morrow.”

He grabbed a cloth bundle from the wagon bench and turned toward the keep.

Davina stepped into his path, her grip on the bag tightening. “Where are you going, sir?”

He frowned at her. “Why, inside, o’ course. The road’s been long, and I have a longer road to Aberdeen on the morrow.” He took a step to the left.

Davina countered it. “The Stag and Thistle in the village should have plenty of rooms available.”

“Ye want me to stay at the inn?” MacLeod’s brow creased, and he looked at her as if she sprouted grass from her ears.

“‘Twould be very inappropriate for you to stay here while my husband is not in attendance, sir.” Davina clenched her jaw.

“I had an agreement wit’ yer da that—”

“And my faither died serving our country, sir.” Davina released her anger and frustration in the form of tears, which gathered in her eyes. Tears—a grand weapon against most men.

“Now, doon’t start that, lass.” He laid a comforting arm around her shoulder, and she stiffened as he guided her toward the entrance.

“I’m well aware yer da is no longer wit’ us, God rest ‘is soul. But the bargain I struck wit’ him should stand wit’ yer hoosband.

” As he let his hand drop, he gave her bottom a squeeze.

“I’ll ’spect supper in a couple o’ hours. ”

He lumbered toward the front entrance, oblivious to the storm he left in his wake. Davina stood frozen, her fists clenched at her sides, the weight of fury anchoring her to the spot.

Fife stepped up beside her, brow furrowed.

“Did you see that?” Davina hissed.

“Aye, madam,” Fife muttered, jaw tight. “Out o’ line, that was.”

“Indeed.” She took a breath, exhaling slowly as she forced her hands to unclench.

“After the wool’s loaded, what do ye want me to do, milady?” Fife peered up at her from under his brushy gray brows.

She huffed. “Put his wagon in the stable. We’ll manage from there.”

Fife nodded and turned away.

Davina stormed through the front doors, tossed the coin pouch onto the study desk, and caught sight of MacLeod beginning to climb the stairs to the second floor.

“Ah-ah-ah, Mr. MacLeod!” she scolded and trotted up the steps to the first-floor landing.

He halted, one boot on the next step, and turned with a scowl.

“Those rooms up there are not available to you,” she said crisply. She passed him with cool authority and gestured to a smaller chamber down the hall on the first-floor level. “This way, please.”

MacLeod followed, his gaze heavy on her as he crossed the threshold into the small guest chamber. He turned to face her with a frown. “Bit tight in here, innit?”

“We’re undergoing renovations,” she replied smoothly. “This is what we have available.”

“I see. ”

“I’ll see you at supper.”

She pivoted before he could speak and descended the stairs, allowing herself the smallest smile.

In the kitchen, the sudden slam of the back door startled the maids into attention. The staff stood in a stiff row, waiting, eyes wide with anticipation.

Davina crossed from the door to the servants’ corridor behind her toward the serving room and shut that door too. The tension in the air crackled.

She faced the plump cook, a no-nonsense woman with flour dusting her sleeves.

“Mr. MacLeod is staying the night,” Davina said, voice hushed. “What’s the supper plan?”

“Nowt fancy, milady. Chicken stew, pease pottage, bit o’ barley porridge. Only brown bread today. No time fer fine manchet—not with short notice.”

Davina nodded. “What about yesterday’s bread?”

“Still got it. Was goin’ to feed it to the swine.”

“Warm it in the oven. Serve it instead. And no dessert tonight.”

The cook smirked. “Understood, madam.”

Davina faced the larder keeper. “What of our mead or ale stores?”

The lanky woman dipped a quick curtsy. “Plenty of both, milady. We also have some mulled wine I could warm up.”

“Nay. Just the ale, and I want the strongest we have.” She turned to the kitchen maid.

“Hopefully, the food alone will change his mind, and he’ll leave for better fare at the inn.

But if he doesn’t, Rosselyn will give you the word.

You make sure Mr. MacLeod’s tankard is never empty. But don’t be too obvious.”

The kitchen maid grinned. “Aye, milady. When the word is given, he’ll never see the bottom. No’ if I can help it.”

“Splendid.”

Davina exited the kitchen through the serving room into the Great Hall with a mischievous smile on her face.

Coming from the foyer, Rosselyn crossed the expansive room with hurried steps and pulled Davina back into the serving room. Checking behind her, she closed the door and faced Davina. “Och, that MacLeod is a devil of a man—can’t keep his hands where they belong!”

“Bother. I knew he’d bring us nothing but grief.” Davina nibbled on her thumbnail and paced the small room. “I don’t think mild fare is going to be enough to drive him away. We might have to ply him with drink until he can nay longer stand. Tell Beatrice to keep that ale flowing.”

Rosselyn nodded and went through the kitchen door, while Davina exited through the opposite door back into the Great Hall. She crossed the distance, into the foyer and up the stairs to her mother’s room, where she rapped twice and waited.

Myrna opened it a crack, then the rest of the way when she saw it was Davina.

“How’s Cailin?” Davina asked.

“Sleeping, milady.” Myrna closed the door behind them.

Davina crossed to the cradle, her skirts whispering against the rug. Cailin lay tucked beneath a woven woolen blanket, her thumb nestled in her cherub mouth, breath soft and steady.